Hath No Fury
by Mokusan
Summary: Everything is going to change. Everything. SPOILERS through 3x12
1. Prologue: Ben Braeden

**Disclaimer:** I don't own, you don't sue.  
**A/N:** Yes, I actually did it. I wrote the first chapter of my SPN fic. It's going to be a long journey, hopefully one that I'll finish, but I believe it has a unique plot and I'm fired up and ready to go! And this prologue? Not even the tip of the ice burg. Enjoy!

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Prologue: Ben Braden

It looked perfect sitting in the driveway, like his own little piece of paradise; paradise that had cost him little more than eight grand, three greasy summers of flipping burgers, and over an hour of tough bargaining with a shark of a salesman, but it was paradise all the same.

He remained on the porch to admire it in the yellow light that poured from the street lamps and onto the sidewalk. Behind him he heard the door creak open and his mother shuffle out to join him, her presence marked only by the patter of slippers against the cement and her sudden appearance at his side.

"You did good, Ben."

"She's a beaut, isn't she?"

Lisa simply smiled, followed by a sigh that made Ben cast her a worried glance.

"You're making me feel _old_, Benny. Stop it!"

Ben rolled his eyes; his mother had been saying that a lot lately, not that he could blame her. He had graduated high school a month before, after all, and as far as he was concerned, she'd been over the hill years ago, more or less because she was his mother, regardless of her actual age. Thin slivers of silver streaked her black hair and small wrinkles had appeared around her eyes; otherwise she looked the same as she had ten years ago.

The thought made Ben's stomach twist as they passed the stairs and into the dining room. Ten years ago had been the first and last time he had seen his father. At the time, neither of them had known – it was only when Ben's need to find his father grew, at a time when most other little boys were learning to fish and play real sports instead of baby t-ball, that he was able to weasel the truth from his mother. That same summer, just before his ninth birthday, a man who acted rather strange came to announce that his brother, Ben's father, was dead. There was no grave, he had said, only ashes, and there would be no funeral; he figured Lisa had been something special, which was apparently a rarity, and had the right to know he was gone. Ben had watched him drive away in the Impala he'd been in awe over just a year before.

From then on out, Dean Winchester was only ever a name.

It was ironic that the day he had met his father and nothing in his family had seemed to change, was the same day his world was forever turned upside down. He had acted brave, of course; he was eight years old, not a baby, and like only _bitches_ went crying to grown-ups, only _shit heads_ were afraid of the dark. In some obscure corner of his mind, he figured that maybe this was a bit different, because he _knew_ there were things lurking in the shadows, and they were _not_ friendly. But he was pretty sure Ryan Humphrey would never understand, so he kept his mouth shut. The stories that had once offered a friendly shiver down his spine were suddenly terrifying, no longer fiction but the horrible truth. In some ways he felt he was simply waiting for the calm before the storm; having been touched by the paranormal once before, it only seemed fitting that sooner or later it would strike again.

"Happy Birthday, Ben!"

Her words did not register as Ben's gaze narrowed on the silver vent high up on the wall. His eyebrows were brushed together as they often were when he was confused or suspicious, the left side of his lip slightly curled. Lisa frowned, gently placing the elaborately decorated cake on the dining room table.

"Ben, honey, are you all right?"

The faintest bit of black smoke seemed to float before the vent, curling up to brush against the ceiling. He could have been seeing things – he had spent the entire day out in the sun, washing his car – but Ben had stopped playing make believe ten years ago.

"Run."

"What?"

"Run!"

Ben tore his gaze away from the black smoke, which had now grown dark and thick, the pace at which it poured into the room increasing with each passing second. He did not know what it was, or where it had come from, but instinct told him that it was not to be trusted, and instinct had not failed him yet. Ben pushed his mother from the room, herding her toward the door.

"Ben, what's wrong?"

"Mom, there's no time! Just go! Linette will still be home – get to her house, I'll catch up later."

"Ben, what has gotten into you?!"

"Keys!" He spun on his heel and dashed back into the dining room and out of sight, only to return a moment later. His hands were empty.

"Benjamin Isaac Braeden, you tell me what is going on– Ben?"

He had gone completely still, eyes shut, as his hand slowly closed around her arm. For a second a strange silence settled over the house as Lisa stared at her son, aware that something was wrong, but unable to determine exactly what it was. The moment seemed passed as quickly as it had come. Ben tightened his grip on Lisa's arm, now pulling her in the opposite direction, away from the door.

"_Ben_, what–" He opened his eyes. "Oh God." She tried to take a step away, but Ben held fast, his short nails digging into her skin. "Oh God, oh God, oh God." They stood in the hall, Ben silent and unmoving, Lisa struggling against his iron grip. "Let me go!" A grin twisted at his lips. "I said _let me go!_" He laughed, a sickening sound that seemed to burn her ears. "What are you?!"

"Don't you know, _mother?_ It's _me_, _Ben_; how could you forget your own son?"

"You're no son of mine!" Lisa's tugging grew more frantic, but the more she pulled, the tighter he held her. "You think I don't know my own _son?_ Those _things_ couldn't fool me years ago – what makes you think that you can do it now?!"

"Hah! You mean the changelings?" Ben – or whatever it was pretending to be Ben – sneered, pulling Lisa close with a sharp tug. "How dare you compare me to those _creatures_."

"Give me back my son," Lisa spat through clenched teeth, staring into his black eyes. When nothing happened, she spoke again, "I said, let him _go_."

"Oh, I'll let him go," he said, shoving Lisa to the floor. He blinked, and she found herself staring into Ben's green eyes. "Unfortunately, you won't be around to see him." He crouched over her, using one knee to pin her stomach to the floor, and pulled Ben's pocketknife from his back pocket. Lisa shrieked as he flipped it open, light from above glinting off the blade and into her eyes.

The first cut was shallow and ran from her jaw down to the curve of her shoulder. She screamed as a thin red line followed after the blade and blood slowly oozed from the open wound. A lazy smile spread over his face as whatever inhabited Ben's body drew his gaze from the cut to Lisa's face.

"I could make this quick," he drawled, lifting her right arm, "but where's the fun in that?" He placed the blade at her wrist and drew a second thin line down to her elbow, ignoring her yells as she cursed him.

"Go to Hell," she growled as she attempted to wriggle herself free. He pushed more of his weight onto her stomach, forcing her to be still as she gasped for breath.

"Oh, I would, my dear, really, but you see, I've been there before," he replied, patting her cheek, "and it simply isn't worth a second visit, especially this time of year." He ran the blade along her other arm and the side of her neck, "I'm sure you understand."

Lisa did not cry. She refused to let so much as a tear escape her eyes; it was one satisfaction that she would not allow this _thing_ to have. As a single mother she had always been a strong woman, and now, with her son lost somewhere behind eyes too cold to be his own, was not a time to be weak.

"He will _kill you_," she hissed. "I don't know how long it will take, but he will hunt you down and _destroy_ you."

"Who? You think _Ben_ will kill me? He's mine now, hidden up here," he tapped his head with the blunt edge of the knife, "and he's never coming out. Or did you think your darling _Dean_ would come avenge you?" He paused and an expression of mock surprise passed over his features. "Oh, that's right. He's _dead_, isn't he? Didn't even get a chance to know he had a son... Kind of makes you wish you'd told him the first time around, doesn't it?" He released a sharp, cruel laugh. "Little Winchester never told you how he died, did he?" The smile vanished from his face. "Dean sold his soul to bring Sam back to life. That's what happens when you care too much. You do stupid, _stupid_ things to save them. And you know what? He's a _demon_ now, Lisa, just like me, and I'd be willing to bet that Dean doesn't give a damn about you, or Ben, or even dear ol' Sammy. He'd be perfectly content to watch you _die._"

"That's a lie," Lisa stated, her voice flat and deadly despite her position. "Dean would never watch _anyone_ die."

"You are so very naive, my dear," the demon whispered in her ear. "He has lost his _humanity_; there is not an ounce of love left in him; his soul is as twisted and dark as the creatures you so rightly fear." He lifted his head away as his hand slowly trailed along her arm and shoulder. There was a pause in which he stared into her eyes as his own flashed black, his sick smile slowly returning. "But believe what you wish; the minutes of your life are terribly numbered." His hand covered her face and pinned her head to the floor. Lisa thrashed beneath him, struggling with all her might to free herself from his grasp as he raised the knife high into the air. "Say bye-bye to baby Benny!" She screamed; the knife pierced her throat and she fell still.

Silence.

Finally, the demon stirred, pulling the knife from her throat as he climbed to his feet. He ran the blade along his tongue, savoring the sweet, metallic taste of her blood; inside him, Ben recoiled, and the demon grinned. The job had gone quicker than he'd have liked, but it was satisfying all the same, and certainly worth the trouble of clawing his way through the gates of Hell.

The click of the cocked gun made him curious; the cold steel against his head made him laugh.

"Now, now, Sam," the demon crooned, smile smug as he turned to face the young hunter. An older man who's name the demon did not know stood beside Sam, his own gun at the ready. "You know guns won't hurt _me._"

Sam pressed the barrel of the gun against the demon's forehead.

"I know the Colt will."

"That's not the Colt." The demon's face paled in spite of his confidence as he eyed the gun.

"Want to try me?"

"You wouldn't kill Ben," the demon retorted, folding his arms. He blinked and his eyes returned to their normal shade of green. "Not your nephew, your _only_ living relative." Sam hesitated and the demon grinned; he knew it wasn't Ben so much as it was his resemblance to Dean. Ten years, and the boy still wasn't over it.

"Why did you kill Lisa?" Sam pressed a moment later, his expression back to the ruthless face of the Hunter the paranormal world was starting to fear above all else.

"Why not?"

Somewhere in the house a clock chimed and the demon grinned. He took a step back and offered the Hunters a two finger salute. Sam aimed the gun, his fingers a brush away from pulling the trigger; the demon could see him struggle, forced to choose between ridding the world of one more demon or saving his last blood relative, a boy who uncannily resembled the man whose demise had sent him tumbling over the edge.

"Sorry to cut things short, Sammy boy, but I've got a schedule to keep. It's been fun." He winked, and before either Hunter could so much as move, a cloud of black smoke erupted from Ben's mouth, soaring up to the ceiling and racing through the vent. The Hunters watched the vent a moment, as if daring the demon to try and come back. Sam felt anger welling up inside him as he pocketed the Colt; he should have shot the demon and killed it while he had the chance. It had been stupid to hesitate. Just because he looked like _him_...

Ben swayed on his feet before slowly slumping to his knees. Something warm and sticky seeped through his jeans; he was dimly aware of a small object in his hands, that there were two strangers in the house, and that for some reason his mother was on the floor beside him. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to puke as his vision swam. His memory of the past half-hour was a blur, fading in and out of focus while gradually growing clearer. Something about his mother, something important...

"_Demon,_" he breathed.

And then the world was gone.


	2. Chapter One: The Hunter

**A/N:** This chapter's a bit short, but it's fairly important. Things should be picking up soon. Thank you for the reviews! Your feedback is ALWAYS appreciated.

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**Ten Years Later**

"_He's lost his _humanity_; there's not an ounce of love left in him; his soul is as dark and twisted as the creatures you so rightly fear."_

_He raised his hand high into the air, knife flashing in the light from above, a cruel grin spread across his face._

"_Say bye-bye to baby Benny!"_

"NO!"

Ben sat up in his bed, a thin film of sweat coating his bare, heaving chest. He looked sickly pale in the thin moonlight, duller still as it filtered in through the yellow threadbare curtains at the dirty window. The hand that ran over his short hair was trembling as it often did when he woke in the night. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim room, he began to calm, the blood pounding in his ears slowly fading away.

He'd been having the same nightmare for the past ten years. Five years ago they had become less and less frequent, allowing months of semi-decent sleep before striking again without warning. Within the past few weeks, however, they'd increased; some nights he'd dreamt of killing his mother at least twice. He was unable to explain why the nightmares continued, and Bobby had little more to offer in way of an explanation. He'd have asked Sam, the man that seemed to be a walking encyclopedia of the supernatural, for advice, but that was impossible.

Sam had been missing for three years.

Ben pulled his hand back through his hair and over his face. There was no sense in going back to bed; he'd never be able to fall back asleep. He pushed away his sheets and stood, pausing a moment to stretch his long arms above his head before continuing to the kitchen. The bitter stench of yesterday's coffee wafted up from the pot and he wrinkled his nose as he poured it into the sink, attempting to make as little noise as possible as to not wake Bobby. As the kitchen filled with soft bubbles and the familiar smell of brewing coffee, Ben reached to the cupboard to retrieve a clean cup, and caught his reflection in the dark window above the sink.

As his green eyes stared back at him, his thoughts wandered to that of his father – or what would have been his father, had he not sold his soul. His brief memories of Dean Winchester were distant and dim, faded like a yellowed photograph lost in some junkyard desk. Lisa had offered few details, and Ben slowly gathered over the years that his mother and his father had been practically strangers; if he wanted details, he'd have to get them from someone else. Unfortunately, there were only two people still alive that could offer him any answers – one had vanished off the face of the earth, and refused to talk about it much to begin with, and the other wasn't exactly a pool of knowledge when it came to the eldest of the Winchester boys.

In the beginning, he had caught Sam staring at him more than once, and Bobby had slipped up and called him Dean several times. Ben had wondered for the longest time if he really looked that much like his father, but try as he might, he couldn't find a single photograph of the former Hunter. Bobby's house had never been Sam's home, he knew, but the two acted so much like family, Ben had assumed there would be something, _anything_ in remembrance to the late Winchester. Yet it seemed that Sam hadn't run the risk of a vengeful spirit, for there was nothing of Dean, other than the long-abandoned Impala, that remained. Ben felt as if he were living in Dean's shadow, serving as nothing more than a clone made to fill the precious gap he had left behind.

"Boy, _what_ are you doing up at the crack of dawn?" Bobby limped into the kitchen, lightly leaning against the battered cane in his right hand. He joined Ben at the sink and peered out the dark window with squinting eyes, trying to see what Ben saw. "Hell, the moon ain't even up yet."

Ben poured a cup of coffee and waited for Bobby to take it before pouring a second. It was all part of their morning ritual – or in this case, pre-morning – and had been for nearly the past ten years. There were days, sometimes weeks, when one would be on a mission, but whenever they were together, it was as natural as spreading salt on a window sill. Ben wasn't sure if it was their way of bonding, or just a habit, plain and simple. Quite honestly, he didn't care; it made him feel at home, as if he belonged here, rather than a replacement.

"What got you up, old man?"

Bobby sighed and took a long swig of his coffee, returning the mug to the table with a loud thunk. Ben couldn't decide if he was simply used to the scalding hot liquid sliding down his throat each morning, or if it was simply too early and he was too _tired_ to care.

"Couldn't sleep. Been runnin' that case in Jamestown through my head all night. Hate it when things just don't add up."

"Maybe it isn't a case. Not _all_ mysterious deaths land in our profession. Like Amelia Earhart."

Bobby snorted. "Next you're gonna be telling me the Bermuda Triangle's just a bunch of hokey. You've got a lot to learn, yet."

"Could be a banshee."

"They latch onto families, and these deaths were all over the place."

"Vengeful spirit?"

"Could be, but I couldn't dig up any stories on violent deaths dating before the first murder."

"No sulfur residue, so it wasn't demonic."

"Maybe I'm just getting paranoid with old age."

They sat in companionable silence until the grey light of early dawn shot through the branches of the trees. Ben stared at the coffee ring that stained the bottom of his mug, regretting his lack of words. He hated the quiet – it gave him too much time to think and dwell on topics he felt were best left at the back of his mind. But he had never been particularly adept at small talk, and Bobby rarely had much to say during the stiff, slow mornings that seemed to dominate their daily lives. It had been that way from the beginning, and was now one of the few constants in his life.

"_Rock salt?"_

"_Check."_

"_Holy water?"_

"_Got it."_

"_EMF meter?"_

"_Bobby."_

"_Thermal scanner?"_

"Bobby! _I got it covered; this isn't my first gig, you know."_

"_It's your first gig alone. If it wasn't for this damn leg, I'd be going with you."_

"_I have to move on eventually, Bobby," Ben teased with a grin. "Besides, if I learned to depend on you, I wouldn't be true Hunter, would I?"_

"_Just get rid of the damn thing and come home."_

"_Yes, sir." Ben gave him a mock salute before jumping in his car, perhaps the one thing he knew he had in common with his father – Dean cherished the Impala, while Ben fawned over his Mercury Comet. He peeled down the gravel drive, leaving behind a trail of dirt and grime floating in the dirt. Bobby coughed and shook his head, watching the road until the sounds of a rumbling engine faded from the trees and the world dwindled back into its usual silence._

_Ben tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. It had taken some convincing, but he'd managed to persuade Bobby into allowing him to riffle through his father's old tapes, the box in which they were stored having been long abandoned in the garage, protected by a thick layer of dust. The collection was outdated, in that they were cassette tapes, but so was his car, and at least the music was decent._

_It had been five years since his mother's death; five years of grueling training beneath Sam and Bobby, all to become a Hunter competent enough to track down the demonic scum that had forced him to murder his own mother. Bobby was finally willing to allow him to take a case on his own – no old guys with guns to slow him down, or burst in at the last minute and take all the credit. This was a trail he'd spotted for himself, pieced together with his own logic, and was finally going to shoot down with his own guns blazing._

_As far as he was concerned, nothing paranormal was safe._


End file.
